That’s not true,Spencer said.But thanks for the vote of confidence.
They moved on. The kitchen needed work.
The ceiling bore the brown tide mark of an old leak, a pale stain spreading outward from the corner like a map of damage. A couple of the cabinets had warped on their hinges, their doors hanging open at wrong angles. The back corner of the tiled floor had lifted, the grout cracked and dark with mildew.
Meryl stopped dead on the threshold.
“All right,” she said after a moment, in a tone that was a little too brisk, a little too controlled. “That’s... not ideal.”
Spencer almost smiled. Almost.
“No,” he agreed. “Not ideal.”
He crossed to the sink and turned the tap. The pipes shuddered in protest somewhere deep in the walls, a clanking rattle that traveled through the house like a cough. Then the tap spat out a thin stream of rusty water, brown, then amber, then gradually clearing, before settling into a steady, if unimpressive, flow.
Meryl looked at the running tap as if it had personally handed her a lifeline.
“There’s water,” she said.
“There’s water,” Spencer agreed. He let it run, watching the color clear. “The kitchen needs work, but I can probably rebuild the cabinets that are damaged, and the rest just need stripping back to the bare wood and then a good couple of coats of varnish. It’ll be a long job...” He paused, realizing he’d been rambling. “But the plumbing’s still live. That matters more.”
She nodded and wrote quickly, but he caught the way her shoulders eased at that small mercy. One less disaster. One more thing the house had held onto.
Yes,his bear said.Good.
By the time they headed upstairs, the light had shifted softer and dimmer through the dusty windows, the afternoon slipping toward evening. Spencer went first, testing each tread again out of habit, though he already trusted the staircase more than the porch or the kitchen floor. The banister was steady under his hand. The risers didn’t creak.
The upstairs surprised even him.
The roofline was good. No obvious fresh leaks, no water stains on the ceilings, no soft patches underfoot. The larger bedroom was dusty but dry, its floorboards pale with age but still tight in their joints. The smaller room still smelled faintly of old linen and cedar, a dry, clean scent that spoke of careful storage and good ventilation. Even the bathroom, shabby as it was, with its cracked tiles and tarnished fixtures, gave them cold water when he tried the tap.
Meryl stood in the larger bedroom, looking from the mountains outside the window, dark shapes now against a sky going soft at the edges, back to the iron bedframe still standing against the wall. The frame was old, heavy, and built to last. Someone had made it by hand.
“So?” she asked eventually. “How bad is it?”
Spencer leaned one shoulder against the doorframe and gave her the truth. He owed her that much, even if the truth was complicated.
“Most of the porch needs replacing. The kitchen needs a lot of work to get it back to its former glory, but it’s time more than materials. Those cabinets were built to last. There’ll be repairs throughout the ground floor, water damage, and rot. I’m guessing there’s water seeping in from somewhere at the front of the house, so that needs finding and fixing as a priority. Although the weather is settled for a while, so it’s not an immediate concern.” He looked around the room once more, at the clean lines of the ceiling and the good light from the window, then back at her. “But the house isn’t lost, Meryl. The structure’s good where it matters. The stairs are solid. The roof’s holding, although I’d like to take a closer look just to make sure. Upstairs is better than it has any right to be. Once the place has had a good clean, it’ll look much better.”
She didn’t answer straight away.
Instead, she walked to the window, pushed one finger through the dust on the sill, and looked out at the trees darkening beyond the garden. The fading light caught her reflection in the glass, and even from where he stood, he could see how tired she looked.
When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter.
“So you think it can be saved.”
Spencer did not hesitate. “Yes.”
His bear lifted its head inside him, certain as ever. Certain about the house. Certain about the woman. Certain about everything Spencer was trying so hard to take one careful step at a time.
Meryl let out a breath, a long, slow exhale that carried the tension of the whole afternoon with it, and gave one small nod, more to herself than to him. “Okay then.”
“Okay then.” He put a hand in his jacket pocket, pulled out a card, and handed it to her. “Here’s the number of the contractor.”
She took the card and read it before lifting her gaze to his. “Spencer Thornberg, carpenter.”
“That’s me.” He held out his hands, suddenly feeling a little stupid.
